


Children of the Revolution

by paradiamond



Category: Snowpiercer (2013)
Genre: M/M, Train babies growing up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-10 09:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2020437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradiamond/pseuds/paradiamond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edgar is the soldier, Grey the weapon. They have their places and their roles in the revolution, but they also had a start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Morning

“Here, I think if we just-” 

Edgar reaches for the lump fabric but Grey bats his hand away, shooting him a look he is well familiar with. Edgar scowls, irritated at being dismissed so readily, but not ready to resort to violence yet. Still though. It was _his_ idea. 

Well. It was Gilliam’s suggestion to make something out of the scraps, but Edgar came up with the specifics. 

Determined to maintain some form of control over the situation Edgar gathers up the rest of the scraps. Now Grey will have to get them from him in order to keep sewing. Of course, Grey notices this and flicks his eyes back up to Edgar’s briefly before returning to his task. Edgar smirks and leans against the metal wall. 

“So are we keeping it for ourselves or trading it up?” he asks, sorting through the bits of fabric and plastic they still have. They’ve used up most of the good stuff by now. 

Grey looks up at him again, expression amused. He sets the thing that will eventually be a ball down in his lap and points to himself then holds up seven fingers. Then he points to Edgar and holds up nine before dramatically rolling his eyes. 

Edgar frowns and leans forward. “Even if they think we’re too young we still have something of value!” Edgar is always so sensitive about his age, even though he's already nine, two years older than Grey.

Grey pointedly glances down at his lap then back up at Edgar, raising one eyebrow. Edgar gives him a friendly shove. “Well we _will_ when we get it done.” 

Grey just smirks and picks the ball back up, returning his attention to it. His sewing needle, formerly a lady’s hairpin, glints in the light as he focuses on his work. Edgar doesn’t really know how to sew, but Grey does because he learned it from Gilliam. Edgar sometimes wishes that he was Gilliam’s favorite because Gilliam knows everything and he tells it all to Grey. 

Someone is coming around the corner, footsteps heavy and measured. Edgar cocks his head. Curtis. 

He smiles. Grey might be Gilliam’s favorite, but Edgar is Curtis’, even though he never says so. 

Curtis stops a few feet away from them, making a face. “Why are you kids playing next to the bathroom?” Curtis asks, bringing his hand up to cover his nose briefly. Edgar narrows his eyes, taking offense at the word ‘playing’, but he’s not really talking to him anyway. 

He directed the question at Grey, even though he can’t talk. Edgar noticed a long time ago that there are two types of adults when it comes to Grey; the ones like Curtis and Tanya who always go out of their way to include Grey in the conversation even if they can’t understand how he answers, and the ones like Andrew and Marco who just ignore him entirely. 

Grey, who is long used to this behavior and doesn’t really like people that much in general, just shrugs and waves a hand by his nose then flicks his fingers away from him before returning his attention to their project. Curtis glances back at Edgar, who smirks and sits up straighter. He’s always the best at understanding Grey. “He means that you don’t notice the smell after a bit.” 

Curtis nods once, looking around the area with interest. “Not many people over here.” 

Edgar genuinely smiles, no longer irritated. “That’s the idea.” He snatches the lump out of Grey’s hands and tosses it towards Curtis. “Here, we’re making a ball.” 

Curtis makes a face, that hollow sadness that the adults seems to get at the strangest times, turning the lump around in his hands. It has a basic wire frame made from broken electronics and scraps from other old world tech. Edgar watches him, waiting for his assessment as he dodges Grey’s fist. 

“This is pretty good,” Curtis says, tossing it back to Grey. Edgar thinks that he hears something snap inside it, but he ignores that, still looking up at Curtis. 

“Thanks. We don’t know if we should keep it or trade it for something better.” 

Grey knocks on the floor next to him to let them know he wants to say something, and then makes a fist and jabbing gesture. Edgar nods vigorously. “Yeah!” 

Curtis frowns, looking to Edgar again. “What?” 

“Grey thinks that we could trade it for a knife.” Edgar grins, and pretends to stab Grey with his fingers. Grey slaps him away, faster as always. 

Curtis is quiet, still frowning down at them. Edgar glances up at him and sees that he’s back into one of his weird adult moods. It’s uncomfortably quiet all of a sudden. Not silent, because the train is never silent, but it’s awkward. Edgar is mostly used to it because Grey can’t talk, but even he seems aware of it, sending Edgar these small glances. Edgar takes that as his cue to start talking again, filling up the empty space. He has to do this for the adults a lot. He launches into an explanation of how they got the idea for the ball. 

Finally Curtis seems to decide on something to say because he interrupts Edgar, which is fine. He was just saying that they probably can’t get a finished knife for the ball, which is probably true, but they might be able to get something to make a knife with. He sits down next to them on the floor, crossing his legs. “I think you should keep it.” 

“Ok,” Edgar says, immediately. Grey frowns, visibly disappointed when Curtis takes the ball from him. 

Curtis looks at it critically. “Here, I’ll help you.” 

Edgar rocks forward, bracing his hands on the floor. “Ok, it has a metal frame-” 

He explains the entire process, tells him where they got the materials and how, and shows him the needle. Curtis nods along to his words, maybe only half listening. Edgar knows that when he was a kid he probably had all the balls he wanted. Real ones, made of plastic that all looked the same. Edgar doesn’t know anything about that, but he does know everything about _this_ ball, and he tells it all to Curtis. 

The ball falls apart the next day when Grey tries to kick it instead of throwing it. The entire structure caves in and some of the wires break. Edgar swears, a new skill he’s developing and hiding from Curtis, and picks the ruin up. 

Grey runs up to him, dodging around the people so deftly they never have to change their course to avoid him. Edgar punches Grey in the arm as hard as he can, and Grey allows it with a solemn nod, acknowledging his fault. 

The next one they build is better. 

***

“Have you seen Grey?” 

The use of his name makes Grey turn his head, looking down on the rest of the car. He’s laying on his stomach on the flat part of one of the vents near the ceiling. As far as he knows, no one else has bothered to really explore the vents and small slats and spaces on the train walls like he has. They’re his own personal place in a world full of the communal. 

No one knows the train as well as Grey. 

The adults have never quite adjusted to their environment. They seem constantly torn between nostalgia and bitterness, either refusing to talk about the old world or never shutting up. Grey couldn’t care less about the way things used to be.

He’s not the only train baby, but at nine now he is one of the oldest. _And most definitely the smartest_ , he thinks, looking down at Edgar, who is still asking for him. Grey watches him passively, considering his next move. 

Usually, Grey would never even think about coming down for anyone but Gilliam, but Edgar looks upset. Again. Turning eleven has done nothing but upset Edgar, who wants to be considered an adult and says so to anyone that will listen. He spends most of his time with Grey complaining about being left out of the plans Gilliam and McGregor are making. Grey spends a lot of these ‘talks’ rolling his eyes, and even went to so far as to actually use some of his precious and scarce paper to write his opinion down for him in small, cramped letter. 

_You can’t just say you’re an adult, you have to act like it._

Proving his point, Edgar had punched him, his two year head start making him significantly bigger and stronger. Grey is faster though, he’ll always be, and escaped to the ceilings to plot his revenge. So far, he doesn’t have much of anything, but Gilliam says that he’ll grow soon. 

That was days ago, and Edgar hasn’t seen Grey since. Grey had seen him though. 

He watches Edgar pace, darting around the much taller people who barely pay him any mind. He never looks above the level of the top bunks. Grey shakes his head. Back when they used to play hide and seek, Edgar could never find Grey unless Grey let him. Looks like nothing much had changed. 

Edgar gets increasingly frustrated, and eventually lashes out at a barrel, kicking it so hard it gets a dent. This prompts the owner of the barrel to jump up and push Edgar away, yelling. Grey glances around for Curtis, who is usually there to prevent this sort of thing, but he isn’t there. 

Edgar won’t back down because he never can, and no adult that is’t Curtis is going to take Edgar’s attitude for very long. He doesn’t know the barrel owner well, so he can’t predict how badly he will hurt Edgar if given the chance. It occurs to him that this could work as his revenge. It’s a tempting thought to just let him get killed, but then Grey takes a moment to reflect on life on the train without Edgar, irritating as he is, and moves. 

He crouches on the vent, keeping low, and grabs onto what is basically just a slight groove in the ceiling. Taking care to aim, he swings himself over to an empty bunk first, then jumps to the floor, landing with a dull thud. Only a few people bother to turn, used to being selective in their perceptions by now. Edgar sees him land though, and before he can yell out, Grey marches over to him, gives a sort of apologetic half-bow to the adult and grabs Edgar’s hand to lead him away. 

Edgar lets himself be dragged, though he keeps talking through two entire train cars. Grey ignores him, making for one of his less important spots. 

“You can’t just _ignore_ me for days and then come flying down from the ceiling like-” 

Grey gives him a sharp tug and directs him to crawl under the makeshift table some of the adults had set up a few years back. It had become a permanent installation, and a decent personal spot for Grey. Edgar eyes him suspiciously. “Isn’t this one of the religious things?” 

Grey gives him a dry look and crawls under the ragged cloth, deciding that Edgar can make up his own mind. He’s done treating him like some boring adult. The space under the table (which is a really a plank of wood with two metal legs, one wooden one, and half an umbrella) is small, but it leads to the nearly empty space under the first set of bunks in the car. Grey lays down flat, sliding under the bunk and looking up at the underside. It’s a pretty easy fit for him, and Grey wonders how it’s going to be when he finally does grow. 

Edgar seems to finally come to a decision and gets down on his hands and knees, clumsy and too loud as always. Grey smirks at him as he fits himself in the space with him, unbothered by the snug fit. “This is uh-” Edgar says, because he can’t ever not be talking, but pauses to lay down next to Grey, looking around. “It’s nice. Did you draw this?” 

Grey just nods, tracing one of his pictures with his thumb. Some of the ink comes off of the metal, which is fine because Grey like to redo them anyway. Edgar reaches over and pinches him. “How could you not tell me about this?” he demands, frowning. “We’re supposed to be _friends_.”

Grey smacks him back, restrained by the low ceiling, and points to a small drawing in the corner of the space. Edgar glares at him but squints over at it, his eyes going wide when he sees what Grey put there. 

“How did you-” Edgar cuts himself off, biting his lip. His hand flies most of the way up to his neck and then immediately back down again. Grey just shoots him a look and points to himself and then the gesturing to the space, then he points to Edgar and then small picture of the locket Grey knows that Edgar wears under his clothes but never told Grey about. 

“Ok ok,” Edgar says, visibly embarrassed. “I get it. We both get to have private stuff. _Fine_. I don’t think it counts anymore though, so you better show me all your personal stuff, because that’s all I have. Then we’ll be even.” 

Grey frowns. Then he points to Edgar’s neck. Edgar narrows his eyes. “No way, it’s mine.” 

Frustrated, Grey shakes his head. Pointing to Edgar’s neck again, then to his mouth. Edgar just blinks. They usually don’t have this problem. Edgar is one who understands, but apparently not today. Grey reaches up and digs a piece of paper out of the space between the mattress and the frame, smoothing it out and showing it to Edgar, who snorts. “The alphabet?” 

Grey nods, then points to the letter T. Finally getting the idea Edgar turns on his side and watches Grey’s movements. “Ok. T, E, L, L.” Grey taps on the side of the paper where he had written ‘next’. Edgar nods and Grey continues. “A, B, O, U, T next N,E,C,K- oh! You want me to tell you where I got it.” He sounds so excited, then he frowns. “Man we really need to find a better way for you to do that.” 

Grey narrows his eyes, feeling like he could kill him. Instead he just nods and shoves the paper back where it belongs. Edgar bites his lip and avoids Grey’s gaze, which is unusual for him. Usually only the adults do that. Grey is finding that he doesn’t like eleven year old Edgar so much. 

“Well, Curtis gave it to me.” He darts a glance over at Grey. “He said it was my mother’s.” 

_Oh._ Grey looks away, feeling a churning in his stomach. Mother’s and families in general are a non-subject between them. Grey’s mother died giving birth to him a little while after the starving time, and he has no idea who his father was. He has Gilliam, who took care of him after he was born even though the others all said he would die, so he doesn’t care. He doesn’t need any things from his mother. But Edgar is different from Grey. Edgar’s mother is dead too, and privately, though he never said so, Grey wonders if Curtis isn’t so interested in Edgar for a reason. 

Edgar is staring up at the drawings on the underside of the bed with a vacant expression now, so Grey taps on the metal to get his attention and starts to squirm out from underneath the bed, half fearing that Edgar will just stay. Grey fidgets at the edge of the table. He never knows how to deal with other people’s emotions. 

Edgar does follow him though, unusually silent and they go towards the back of the train, Grey pulling him by the hand again. 

When they reach the end of the car, Grey stops and Edgar collides into him, knocking them both forward. Grey turns to shoot him an annoyed look which Edgar answers with a sheepish grin. Relived at the shift back to a good mood, Grey smiles and extends one finger, pointing to the ceiling. 

Edgar squints, then smirks. “Ok, one word,” he jokes, pitching his voice low to copy something the adults tend to say. Grey swats at him playfully and points up again. This time Edgar actually looks. 

“Right so, it’s the ceiling.” 

Rolling his eyes, Grey starts to climb, smiling when he hears Edgar’s excited gasp.


	2. Noon

“Curtis?”

“What,” Curtis says without looking up from where he’s fixing one of his shoes. Or at least trying to. Edgar shifts his weight to his back foot and clears his throat. 

“Uh-” Curtis looks up, expression amused. Edgar stops fidgeting and resolves to just ask. “I want-” he changes his strategy mid sentence. “I wanted to ask you where you think I should get my tattoo.” 

He leans against the bunk and tries to keep his face as impassive as possible. Curtis isn’t his guardian or anything, but people tend to do what he says when it comes to Edgar, and if Curtis tells the artist not to give Edgar any tattoos, he won’t since Edgar is thirteen. Never mind that Grey is only _eleven_ and he’s getting them. 

Curtis stares at his face in silence for an uncomfortably long time. Edgar fights the urge to look away, or to speak. Grey is always telling him that people think he talks when he gets nervous, and he doesn’t want to seem nervous. 

Finally Curtis leans back. “Well what do you think?” 

Edgar blinks, caught off guard. “Uh-” He hadn’t thought this far ahead, expecting to have to fight. Sometimes he wishes he was like Grey, then he wouldn’t have to explain himself to people. When he said that to Grey though, he punched Edgar in the face. “Well I think either my back or maybe one on my arm, or-” 

“What’s the tattoo?” Curtis says, crossing his arms. Edgar knows that face. 

_Shit._

“It’s like, a shield? With, uh, some words-” 

“Edgar.” 

He stops, rubbing a hand over his hair, which had recently been cut. Curtis just continues to stare at him. “ _Edgar._ ” 

“Ok, alright.” He puts his hands up. “So, I haven’t planned it all out yet but-” 

“Is this about Grey?” Curtis asks, sounding sympathetic. His tone almost pitying. Edgar narrows his eyes. 

“No,” he says, crossing his arms. Curtis just shakes his head. 

“Grey needs the tattoos so that he can-” 

“I _know_.” Edgar tries and fails to keep the whine out of his voice. It seems that people can’t stop talking about Grey recently. Apparently all it takes to be famous in the tail section is throwing a few knives. “This isn’t about him.” 

Curtis actually laughs at him then, and Edgar grinds his teeth together, seeing red. “Edgar, you can’t expect me to believe that. Just because Grey is better than you at some-” 

But Edgar is already gone, half running away from him, fuming. _Fucking Curtis._ Edgar shoves someone out of the way, ignoring the indignant squawk that follows him. All he and Curtis ever do anymore is fight because all Curtis wants to do is absolutely nothing, and he doesn’t want Edgar doing anything either. 

Meanwhile Grey is at the back of the train getting another tattoo and probably helping Gilliam plan the next revolt at the same time. No one stops him from doing anything. 

Edgar shoves his way to the back of the train, stopping right outside the curtained off area that Gilliam lives in. He glares at the tattered fabric, moving to lean against the wall with his arms crossed. Grey is still in there getting marked up by the Painter, Edgar can see glimpses of him when the train sways particularly powerfully and shifts the curtain. He can wait. 

People ignore him as usual, going about their business. Edgar ignores them too. He thinks about going to one of Grey’s spots to wait for him instead, but he isn’t sure which ones Grey uses nowadays. Edgar doesn’t see him that often anymore, he’s too busy doing whatever it is he does with Gilliam all day. 

Eventually, the curtain swings open and Edgar sees that Grey is sitting up. He doesn’t appear to be leaving but it’s not like Edgar can actually fight Grey in front of Gilliam. He’s too mad to do nothing though, so he starts forward, only to be stopped by Marcus, who is sitting on the floor by the curtain. 

“No way little man, Gilliam’s busy.” He leans to the side briefly to let the Painter out but then blocks Edgar’s path again. 

Edgar curls his hands into fists, holding them tightly by his sides. “I need to talk to Grey.” 

Marcus makes a face. “Do I look like I-” 

“It’s alright Marcus, let him in.” Gilliam’s voice drifts out from behind the curtain and Edgar shoots Marcus a smug look before showing himself in. 

Grey is looking up at him from his place on the floor, with his wide eyes. All open curiosity and incessant calm even after getting jabbed with a needle for the past day. It pisses Edgar off. Gilliam’s there too, but Edgar doesn’t give a damn. 

“You aren’t better than me at stuff!” 

Gilliam just raises his eyebrows and looks to see how Grey will respond. Grey blinks, unbothered and then looks down at his arms, ignoring him completely. Edgar could hit him. He still might, Gilliam or no Gilliam. “Grey-” 

Grey taps the metal, indicating that he wants to communicate and points to his arm. Edgar glares at his face. “What,” he grinds out. 

Smirking now, Grey just nods, pointing again. This time Edgar looks. **What** is spelled out on his upper arm. Above and below it are other words, who, where, why. He also has a series of numbers on his chest. Edgar chews on his lip. “Er-” 

“Edgar,” Gilliam calls out, tone polite. Edgar turns, unable to ignore him no matter how pissed off at Grey he is. Gilliam is still their leader. 

“Yes?” Edgar answers, trying to sound rational even though he’s still mad. He tries to ignore Grey, who is still watching them both, his gaze like a physical sensation. 

Gilliam smiles at him. “I’m very glad you stopped by. I was just thinking that it’s time to discuss your training.” 

Edgar shifts his weight, glancing around the space. Training means fighting. “That- that sounds good.” Embarrassed now, he tries to stand up as straight as Curtis always does when he talk to Gilliam about official stuff. “Thank you.” 

Nodding, Gilliam leans back against the wall. “It is important you know how to defend yourself.” 

“And how to attack?” Edgar asks, sitting down on the floor without a fuss when Grey tugs on the seat of his pants. He’s forgotten his anger in the anticipation. “We have to rebel again.” 

Gilliam regards him silently for several minutes. “Yes. Unfortunately we do. Are you ready to start your training Edgar?”

Edgar nod vigorously. Gilliam smiles and turns to the other boy. “What about you Grey?” He nods too. Edgar glances over at him briefly, surprised. He had thought that Grey had already started. 

“Good.” Gilliam turns away from him and pulls out a short piece of metal from one of his many bags and tosses it to Edgar. “That’s not sharp, it’s for practice. Go to Curtis and tell him what I said. You too Grey.” 

They stand and exit through the curtain. Edgar leads Grey through the next car, somehow too excited to speak. Grey grabs his hand and jerks him to the side suddenly, into the bathroom area. Edgar winces at the intensity of the smell. “Ugh, what is it?”

Grey gives him a knowing look and reaches down into one of his many pants pockets, pulling out a strange looking stick with a pitch black end. Edgar frowns but Grey just shakes the stick in his face then points to one of his tattoos. **What.**

Edgar rolls his eyes but decides to play along. “I don’t know what it is Grey.” 

Grey gives him a flat look. He points to **when** then to **not** then to **4** and suddenly Edgar gets that he's just point to the tattoos themselves, not their meanings, and makes a wild grab for the stick. “Shit man, this is awesome!” 

Grey retains his grasp on the tattooing stick, smiling. He pulls out a small pot of ink from another pocket and smiles even wider. Edgar knows he wouldn’t have disobeyed Gilliam or gone behind his back for anything, and the tacit approval from their leader makes him match Grey’s uncharacteristically happy expression. 

Edgar puts one of his hands on Grey’s shoulders and squeezes. “Thanks man, I mean it.” 

Grey nods, more serious now. He reaches over and puts one finger on the palm of Edgar’s other hand, tracing invisible letters. N O tap F I G H T I N G tap. 

Edgar nods back, leaning forward to press his forehead against Grey’s like they sometimes did when they were little. He’s right, they should fight the front sectioners, not each other. “I’ll try.” 

He feels Grey move his hand again. I D I O T tap. 

Laughing, Edgar chases Grey out of the car with their dull practice weapon, feeling better than he had in weeks. 

***

The knife hits the target with a dull thud and Grey immediately reaches for another, spinning to throw at the target to his left. He misses by an inch. 

Behind him, Edgar laughs. “On come on, you can’t beat yourself up over _that_.” Grey turns and fixes him with a glare, which only makes him laugh more. It's been two years since they started their training and Edgar has been irritating for every single day of it. “Come off it man, this false modesty shite needs to stop.” Grey rolls his eyes at the use of Edgar’s new favorite Irish word. Last year it was ‘arse.’ Grey sort of wishes people would stop teaching them to him. 

Gilliam chuckles. “He’s right Grey, it wouldn’t be called practice if we couldn’t all improve.” 

Heat rushes to Grey’s face, and he takes his time pulling the knives out of the targets so he doesn’t have to turn around. Edgar bounds up to him, holding his hand out. “Here,” he says smiling. “Let me show you how it’s done.” 

Grey snorts. They both know that Edgar is hopeless at throwing knives. He’s a close combat man, but Gilliam insists on practicing all skills. 

When he moves to sit by Gilliam’s side, he stops him, pointing to the small open space they had created. “Try the handstand again.” 

Eager to do something correctly, Grey rushes over to the spot, quickly assuming the position. It’s hard, at thirteen Grey’s muscles haven’t come in the way Edgar’s have yet, but he does it. Soon he’ll be able to do handstand pushups, which Edgar claims are absolutely ridiculous and useless, but he doesn’t understand. Absolute control over the body, that’s what Gilliam says. 

Upside down, Grey watches Edgar throw a knife and miss the target entirely. Edgar peeks around his shoulder and sees Grey watching him. “Yeah, yeah. I know.” He turns back and picks up another, taking his time to line up the shot. In a real fight, he won’t have time to do that, but Grey knows that in a real fight no one in their right mind would give Edgar the knives. 

“Ok, ok,” Edgar says, running over to pull the knives out of the wall, and in some cases pick them up off the floor. He doesn’t sound too embarrassed, probably because Curtis isn’t helping today. “I’m good to stop now.” 

Gilliam laughs good naturedly. “Yes, Edgar that’s fine, shall we move on to hand to hand?” he asks, knowing full well that’s what Edgar wants. Grey swings his legs and flips back into standing position, the blood rushing back to his body suddenly. He wobbles only a little bit, but Gilliam still sees, smiling over at him. “Perhaps we should give Grey a few minutes,” he calls over to Edgar, who has already stripped off the majority of his clothes and is now bouncing around the space, punching at the air.

Grey shakes his head vigorously but Edgar frowns. “But it should be a fair fight. I don’t wanna beat up a kid two years younger than me if he’s all dizzy and shite.” 

Grey is about to just tackle him to get him to close his dumb mouth when Gilliam nods. “That makes sense Edgar.” 

Edgar smirks over at Grey, knowing that he would never speak against Gilliam. Grey just eyes Edgar’s stance critically. He wants a fair fight? Grey will give him one. Though still taller than Grey and more evenly muscled, Edgar is nowhere near Grey’s speed. One day, Grey will be best at both, and Edgar won’t be able to make fun of him anymore. 

Edgar must see some of this in Grey’s eyes, because he grins and puts his hands up. “Ready?” 

Grey glances over at Gilliam who nods. Then he throws himself at Edgar. 

Twenty minutes later, Edgar has a fresh black eye and Grey’s nose might be broken. Edgar beat him best two out of three, but Gilliam assures him that no thirteen year old he’d ever seen could hold his own in a fight like that, so he doesn’t let himself feel too bad about it. He’s still best at practically everything else. 

Gilliam checks then both over and declares that they will both live, sending them on their way so he can confer with Marcus and McGregor. Grey goes, shooting one last look over his shoulder as Edgar slings an arm around his waist, still laughing. There’s something going on that Grey doesn’t know about, but Gilliam won’t tell him what it is. 

He tries to put it out of his mind, turning his attention back to Edgar, who sits down on a spare bit of floor near the storage areas. Grey sits down next to him, leaning against a barrel. “I’m just saying I don’t think there’s any reason not to train on our own. Or at least just with Curtis around.” He makes a face. “He can’t tell us what to do.” 

Grey smiles reflexively at Edgar’s tone, feeling a slight pain at his mouth. He reaches up to touch it and his hand comes away bloody. Edgar notices and reaches out to touch his face. “Oh your split lip opened back up,” he smirks. “Sorry about that.” 

Grey is tempted to poke him on his black eye but restrains himself. Blood drips down his chin and his swipes his tongue over it earning a laugh form Edgar. “Here, you missed some,” he says, sliding his hand across Grey’s face to rub at his chin with his thumb. Grey’s breath catches in his throat and Edgar’s eyes flick back up to meet Grey's, his pupils blown wide. 

_Oh,_ Grey thinks, and then Edgar leans forward to press their mouths together, grabbing onto the back of Grey’s neck to hold him there. Grey freezes, unsure of what to do. He doesn’t know _how_ to kiss people, Gilliam refused to show him. Edgar runs his tongue along the seam of Grey’s lips, and maybe it’s the taste of the blood that makes him jerk away suddenly, face blotchy red. 

“I uh-” he stammers, pushing himself up. Grey just blinks up at him, confused. “I have to go.” 

By the time it occurs to Grey to stop him, Edgar is already gone. 

He sits there for a few minutes, absently touching his lips. They’re still bleeding. A few people glance at him as they walk by, but most just ignore him entirely. That suits Grey just fine. He has no used for other people, he has Gilliam. He supposes that he has Edgar too, but it’s different. Less...real. 

Frowning, Grey stands up and climbs up the shelves and barrels until he’s high enough to be more alone. He looks out over the people and spots McGregor and Marcus sitting with their heads together in the corner. Eyes narrowed, Grey crawls along the tops of the shelves until he gets close enough to move onto the vent directly above them. He’s too big to lay down on it anymore, but he can perch with his knees bent easily enough. He breathes silently, and listens. 

“Marcus, I’m telling you, I won’t do it.” 

“He’s not fit to lead us anymore,” Marcus said, keeping his voice low, but not low enough. Grey narrows his eyes, focusing. “You should do it.” 

McGregor grunts. “Not while Gilliam is still here. Come on, have you forgotten all he’s done for us?” 

“Of course not!” Marcus hisses. “I’m not saying we should get rid of him-” 

“I hope not.” 

“I’m just saying that he doesn’t have to be in charge. Why should he be?” 

“I won’t have this discussion with you anymore Marcus,” McGregor says, standing up. “We’re sticking to the plan. Gilliam’s plan.” 

He leaves, but Marcus doesn’t. Grey peaks over the edge of the vent and sees him staring off into space, twirling a knife between his fingers. Grey watches him for two hours, and he never moves until the alarm blares to announce a count. No one pays him any mind. He’s a known figure in the tail and people let him do as he pleases. He even guards their leader, sitting outside his room. He had watched over things while Grey was getting his tattoos. Grey had trusted him. 

He watches Marcus as they do the count, as they retrieve their food, careful not to stare too obviously. It doesn’t matter, Marcus is too busy glaring at Gilliam to notice anything else. A dark suspicion starts to form in Grey’s mind, quickly condensing into hate. In that moment he hates Marcus more than he hates the guards. More than minister Mason. Maybe even more than Wilford. 

Marcus barely eats his protein bar, stopping frequently to glance around the room or to look at McGregor. Eventually he just hands to rest to Marta, a pregnant woman who smiles up at him and calls him a gentleman. Grey narrows his eyes and crams the rest of his bar into his mouth. He needs the energy. 

Marcus leaves the car with Grey right behind him, making for the back of the train. When they reach the last car, Marcus finally glances behind him, but Grey has taken the higher ground. 

Grey watches from above as Marcus pokes his head into Gilliam’s room and tells McGregor that they need him at the front. _Liar,_ Grey thinks, wrapping his hand around his knife. 

Marcus doesn’t make his move though. Instead he sits down at the entrance to Gilliam’s place and does nothing. At first Grey is confused, but then he realizes. _Coward._ Grey frowns down at him, knife still in hand. Grey moves across the bunks and structures so he can enter Gilliam’s room from the top, barely disturbing the curtain as he goes. Marcus never notices, a terrible guard as well as a lying bastard. 

Gilliam sees him immediately but Grey puts one one his fingers over his still split lip, hoping Gilliam will trust him. Gilliam’s eyebrows shoot up but he says nothing as Grey climbs down the wall. When his feet touch the floor he darts over to kneel at Gilliam’s side, grabbing onto his hand and squeezing it, fear momentarily overtaking him. 

Gilliam maintains his silence, pointing to Grey’s arm. **What**.

Grey points to where Marcus is sitting, then points to Gilliam and makes a stabbing motion. Gilliam narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t look surprised. He leans over and kisses the top of Grey’s head before pointing to the other side of the space. 

Grey goes and stands in the corner made by the wall and the curtain, gripping his knife tightly. Gilliam goes back to his reading, though he rarely turns a page. They maintain their positions, and wait. 

It takes Marcus almost three hours to work up the nerve to attack Gilliam. Focused as he is on his goal, he never even sees Grey until it’s too late. 

Much later, after all the yelling and even the cleaning is done and people have gone back to minding their own business, Gilliam tells Grey to go and get some rest. Frowning, Grey points to the floor near to where Gilliam sleeps. He smiles. “Not tonight. I need to have a talk with someone.” 

Disappointed but unwilling to make a fuss, Grey stands and leaves, feeling the exertion of the day catch up with him. Gilliam’s right, as always, he does need rest. People stare at him as he walks by now instead of ignoring him, and Grey keeps his head high. No one will dare try to kill Gilliam now. 

Grey sleeps in a rotation of places, not really needed a permanent bunk when he spends so much time at Gilliam’s. He passes by all his usual places, heading for the fourth car. 

Edgar is still awake, Grey can tell. He moves the flimsy sheet they put up and climbs straight into his bunk. Edgar sits up, clearly getting ready to do some serious yelling, but stops when he sees who it is. 

“Grey!” he calls, eyes wide. “I thought- are you ok?” 

Grey just nods and crawls up the bunk, towards Edgar. They used to sleep together all the time, and Grey wants that tonight. Edgar moves over for him, looking flustered. Feeling particularly charitable and unusually tired, Grey puts a stop to his nonsense right away by closing the space between them and kissing him. 

Edgar blinks when Grey pulls away. “Uh-” Grey puts a hand over his mouth cutting him off. Then he rolls over and makes himself comfortable, reaching around to grab Edgar’s arm, wrapping it around his own waist. He falls asleep almost immediately.


	3. Night

“It’s not the right time-” 

“When will it ever be? When-” 

“That’s not what I’m saying.” 

Edgar feels his eyes start to glaze over and they only had breakfast an hour ago. How many times can people have the same exact argument? Planning the next rebellion, whenever that might happen, is incredibly frustrating. Sitting just behind Curtis’ left shoulder in the circle seemed like an exciting prospect until Edgar actually had to sit there. For hours. 

He shifts around, trying to relieve the itching on his back and the restlessness in his limbs. Around the circle, it looks like other people are feeling the same way. Curtis told him that because it’s the (approximate) two year anniversary of the failed McGregor revolt, people’s emotions are running high. When that happens they tend to start yelling. Edgar pushes the palms of his hands into his eyes, trying to grind them out of his head in the vain hope that it will allow him to escape. 

Bizarrely, Curtis seems to take notice of it, and waves him away. “This is a waste of time,” he whispers, too quietly for the rest to hear. Edgar jumps up, so relieved that he doesn’t even care that Curtis doesn’t want him around for once and takes off towards the front. 

It’s not very soldier like. Not disciplined in the way Edgar knows he should try to be, the way Curtis wants him to be, but damn if it isn’t hard to listen to people go in circles. 

When they passed the bridge two months ago, the sign of the new year and the day most of the train babies use as a birthday, Curtis sat Edgar down and talked with him for hours about discipline, about the chain of command. “You’re seventeen now,” he’d said, looking off into the middle distance. “That’s how old I was when I first boarded the train.” 

Edgar nodded. He’d known that already of course, but something kept him quiet. 

Curtis stared at him, hard, for several minutes before continuing. “I...wasn’t like you when I was your age, I was still a dumb kid. You grew up faster.” He took hold of Edgar’s shoulder. “Gilliam is our leader, and that’s always going to be true. I’m like the general, the head of the fighters now that McGregor is gone. And now you’re going to be second in command.” 

The swell of pride Edgar had felt that day lasted him for months, and reignited a hope inside him he thought he had buried. Curtis will never see him that way though, and even if he did, he would never let himself act on it. So Edgar squares his shoulders and tries to be content with his approval. 

Free of his responsibilities for the time being, Edgar weaves his way all the way from the fourteenth car to the fourth, searching for something to do. He doesn’t see Grey, and he probably won’t find him if he doesn’t want to be found, so instead he hops up onto his bunk and digs out the mess of fabric he’d been working with.

Not even ten minutes later, a familiar shape catches his eye. _Speak of the devil,_ Edgar thinks, smirking. 

“Well if it isn’t Gilliam’s left arm,” Edgar calls out, grinning and ignoring Grey’s irritated look. Edgar knows how much Grey dislikes that name, so he uses it all the time. For a second, it seems like Grey will just keep on walking, but he hoists himself up to sit beside Edgar on his bunk. He looks down at Edgar’s lap and raises an eyebrow. 

Edgar laughs. “Fixing my shirt,” he says, pulling his coat open to show that he’s wearing nothing under it. “I was playing with Timmy and-” 

Grey cuts him off by leaning forward smoothly and sliding his hand into Edgar’s jacket, moving it down and around to his back. Edgar blinks, caught off guard as Grey’s other hand joins the first, warm and rough. “Wha- right now?” 

Grey answers by kissing him, running his tongue across the seam of Edgar’s lips until he opens them, granting Grey access. Edgar moans, forgetting entirely what he was going to say. Grey closes the space between them and pulls Edgar forward until they’re pressed together from their chests to their ankles. 

Edgar pulls away, grinning. It doesn’t take much to get him going. “Alright then.” He grabs onto Grey’s shoulders and pushes him down as he swings his leg over the other boy’s hips, straddling him. Grey goes without complaint, sliding his hand down to hold onto Edgar’s hips. Smirking, Edgar leans down and kisses him again, letting Grey hold the back of his head and take the lead. 

Curtis’ voice drifts over to them from the left behind and Edgar breaks away, knowing what’s coming but not fast enough to stop it. “Edgar have you seen- goddammit!” He whirls to face the other direction. “Christ, can’t you at least close the curtain? It’s the middle of the day!” 

Curtis stomps off and Edgar glares in his general direction. Below him, Grey rolls his eyes, pulling at Edgar’s jacket as Edgar jerks the curtain closed. “Sorry,” he calls out, completely insincerely. Curtis had been trying to stop Edgar from having sex for two years now. He refocuses on Grey. “Fuckin’ old world values. I mean you’d think this was some awful thing the way he goes on about it.” 

Grey snorts as he strips off his pants and jabs one finger at Edgar’s chest. Edgar narrows his eyes. “Am not.” He may have technically been born in the old world, but he’s _not_ an old worlder, not in the way that counts. Visibly amused, Grey just gives him one slow nod, so Edgar aims a punch for his shoulder. Of course Grey dodges, using Edgar’s momentum against him to roll them both over, putting Grey on top. 

Edgar gives a token struggle but Grey has him pinned between his legs and by his hands on Edgar’s shoulders. At seventeen and fifteen, Edgar isn’t bigger than Grey anymore. He has no chance unless he wants to turn this into an actual fight, which, he reflects as Grey leans down and trails bites down Edgar’s neck, he absolutely doesn’t. 

Impatient as always when it comes to sex, Grey tugs at Edgar’s pants until they’re gone, thrown to the bottom of the bunk with the rest of their things. He wraps his hand around Edgar’s cock without hesitation, and strokes, causing Edgar to press a hand over his mouth to try to muffle the sounds he wants to make. His grip is hard, almost too tight. Grey touches him with the same single minded focus he uses for everything else, efficient almost to the point of being impersonal. 

The purposeful touches might offend Edgar if he didn’t know Grey so well. Grey is Grey. He doesn’t see the point in being any other way. 

Edgar moves his hips to the rhythm Grey sets, bucking up into his grip. “Uh- do you want me to…?” he trails off meaningfully but Grey shakes his head, putting his fingers in his own mouth to get them wet. 

“Who says-” Edgar pauses to breath, his voice unsteady as Grey uses his knees to push Edgar’s legs open. “That I’m the one getting fucked, huh?” 

The heated look Grey gives him makes Edgar arch his back, trembling in anticipation. Things move rather quickly after that, leaving Edgar pleasantly sore and panting, Grey curled around him.

Grey’s fingers move across Edgar’s spine, and Edgar really hopes that Grey isn’t trying to trace any letters to tell him something because he can’t focus. They drift over the raw patch on Edgar’s upper back and his hisses at the sharp sensation. “Watch it man.” 

Grey huffs and pulls him by the shoulder to get him to turn, settling him on his stomach. Edgar turns his head so he can see Grey’s expression as he looks. Grey meets his eyes and nods, evidently approving of the progress of the image. The tattoo Edgar had been getting for the past several months is in the late stages of being worked on. Between healing concerns and payment to the Painter it had taken rather a long time to get to this point. 

A light touch traces the outline of the image, making Edgar squirm. Grey ignores him, following the rim of the shield. It had been the first thing to come to mind when Curtis questioned him two years ago, and Edgar had found himself thinking about it more and more as the years went by until it was all he wanted, even after Grey gave him the small tattoo on his arm, a miniature image of his mother’s locket. 

Even so, Edgar needed something of his very own, just for him. Something that couldn’t be taken away at a whim. The shield was perfect. Shields protect but can also be used to attack in need be, and the concept appealed to Edgar so much he finally went to the Painter. 

“A shield?” the Painter had asked, eyes gleaming with the possibilities. “Well sure I can do that. What type of shield?” 

Edgar had shifted from foot to foot, excited. “Dunno, can you show me some sketches?” He sat down on the floor with the man for several hours over the course of a week, sketching and planning and discussing payments. 

He looked through all of Gilliam’s books with Grey, who knew all the books by heart, for inspiration. Edgar’s favorite was a story about knights, Grey liked the nonfiction one about the police. Someone once told Edgar that his father had been a police officer, but they may have just been trying to be nice to the little orphan boy. Still. It said something to him as he traced the pictures in Gilliam’s books. 

Grey showed him the words, _Protect and Serve_. Edgar saw and wanted to keep them forever. 

He lets himself drift as Grey explores, eyes closed for a few minutes before sighing and opening them again. “Hey Grey?” The other boy taps his spine to indicate that he’ listening. “Does Gilliam...mind? That we do this?” Everyone knows that Grey and Gilliam are together. 

Moving away so he can meet Edgar’s eyes, Grey frowns and shakes his head. He looks so plainly confused that Edgar feels stupid for even asking. He levers himself up on his elbows. “I just thought...because Gilliam came from the old world, you know? It’s a possibility.” Grey is still frowning. Embarrassed, Edgar moves to sit up and put some clothes on but Grey puts his hand flat on Edgar’s chest to stop him, shifting so he can hover over him. 

He points to his own chest, directly over his heart. Edgar doesn’t have to look to know what he’s showing him, but he does it anyway. **Gilliam**. Overlaying it is a scar Grey got in the McGregor riots. Edgar reaches out to touch it, then draws his hand back, glancing up at Grey’s face. Grey nods, letting Edgar touch. 

The scar cuts an uneven path through the word, jagged and fierce. Everything about Grey is that way. Grey reaches out and touches Edgar’s chest too, tracing letters. C U R T-

“Cut it out,” Edgar says, slapping his hand away. “That’s not funny.” 

Grey gives him a look that says he doesn’t think it’s funny at all, and slips away, throwing his clothes back on and jumping down from the bunk. Edgar closes his eyes, trying not to think at all. 

***

Grey sits outside the curtain to Gilliam’s room, watching and occasionally throwing one of his knives. He doesn’t really need the practice, but he likes to remind people of what Gilliam’s guard is capable of. The glint of metal is enough to put off most would-be thieves or assassins. 

Inside, Curtis and Gilliam are talking in low voices. Sometimes arguing, but they keep their voices quiet. The rest of the train doesn’t know that Gilliam and Curtis have disagreements. To everyone else, they are a united front delivering stability and hope. Grey is the shadow on the wall, a silent weapon capable of delivering the will of the leadership...whatever that might be. He throws another knife. It hits the target in the center with a satisfying thud. Edgar glances in his direction. 

Grey doesn’t love the people in the tail section the way that Gilliam does, openly and forgiving. He doesn’t understand it. All he does he does for Gilliam. 

“All right there Grey?” Edgar calls out to him as he approaches, evidently done with trying and failing to look occupied at the other end of the car as he waits for Curtis. He just cut his hair, far too close to his scalp as usual, and Grey’s lips quirk at the sight. If Grey is the shadow, Edgar is the light. The upbeat young soldier inspiring the people, drawing them to him and therefore to Curtis’ cause. 

He hasn’t seen Edgar in days, almost a week. They spends less and less time with each other as the revolution draws closer. Grey hardly leaves Gilliam’s side, and Edgar does the same with Curtis. Gilliam’s left arm and Curtis’ little shadow, that’s what they call them. _Or the lost boys,_ Grey thinks, watching a woman watch them. 

Edgar sighs and slides down the wall to sit next to Grey. “How long have they been in there?” Grey points to one of his numbers, **2** , and Edgar shrugs. “Not bad, not bad.” 

He looks ready to vibrate out of his skin. Grey reaches out and puts a steadying hand on his shoulder, trying to prevent this. Edgar just shakes him off, grinning. “So, I was talking with the Painter-” 

The curtain opens and Curtis steps out, spotting Edgar immediately. He nods. “Hey, Edgar.” Then as an afterthought. “Grey.” 

Grey nods back, but he’s busy pulling back the curtain to send Gilliam a questioning look. Gilliam meets his eyes and holds up one hand, signaling that he wants time to think privately. Grey withdraws and catches sight of Curtis and Edgar leaving. Edgar calls over his shoulder. “I’ll tell you that thing later.” Then they’re gone, Edgar nearly jogging at Curtis’ heels.

Grey smiles and stands to retrieve his knives, knowing that Edgar won’t be coming back anytime soon. The only reason he started to tell the story to Grey was because Curtis wasn’t available. Grey is fine with being a substitute, he has Gilliam to focus on. Edgar understands, but he knows that Curtis doesn’t by the way he looks at them sometimes. Once Grey heard Curtis chastise Edgar for ‘using’ him. Grey dealt with that misunderstanding himself. He has no right to want to be Edgar’s number one if Edgar wouldn’t be Grey’s. 

_Priorities,_ Grey thinks, settling back down into his spot again. He flips the knife around in his hand. It’s a concept Grey can connect to. Edgar too, which is probably why they’d stayed friends for so long. Grey doesn’t even connect with the concept of friendship that well, only accepting that he has it with Edgar. The knife glints in the light. 

“Grey?” Gilliam’s voice drifts through the curtain. Grey stands immediately and slips through the gap between the two pieces, moving to kneel by Gilliam’s side. 

Gilliam lets his hand drift to Grey’s hair, stroking. They often sit like this, taking comfort in each other in the simple ways. “It’s going to be soon,” Gilliam murmurs, fingers brushing lightly over Grey’s skin. 

Grey points to his arm. **When**. Gilliam doesn’t even have to look. “Soon. Possibly even in a month, although I expect all told we’re looking at closer to two.” The possibility hangs in the air, and Grey tries to consider it. All the past revolts have failed. In order to succeed, this one must be substantially different. 

Grey sits back slightly, holding his fingers round to make a C with his hand. Gilliam nods. “He’ll be ready,” he chuckles. “He has Edgar to keep him in line.” 

Grey gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes so Gilliam can see just what he thinks about that sentiment. Gilliam laughs, his hand leaving Grey to stroke at his own face, considering. “In truth though, his development has truly surprised me, as has yours.” Grey tilts his head to the side to indicate his interest, but Gilliam isn’t looking at him anymore. 

“The Children of the Train,” he says, like a title. Grey rocks on his heels slightly, wondering at his mood. Gilliam smiles and looks back at him. “I never counted on you. The train babies. It will be you. You’ll fix it.” He sounds almost like he’s trying to convince himself. 

Grey reaches out, touching his face. Offering his assurance in his own abilities. Gilliam puts his hand over Grey’s. “I’m sorry Grey,” he says, not smiling anymore. “I’m sorry for the ways I’ve failed you.” 

It is difficult, after that, to get Gilliam to talk at all. 

Sleep doesn’t come easy for Grey that night, wrapped up as he is in worrying for Gilliam. Gilliam’s bed is a mismatched nest of old bedding scraps, spare blankets, and Grey, curled up beside him. Troubled, Grey sleeps with one eyes open before giving up on the endeavor entirely. 

If he could give up on sleep entirely, he would. As it is Grey has to settle for being the lightest sleeper in the tail. Most of the old world passengers adapted to the motion and noise of the train by becoming dead to the world, blocking everything out. Even Gilliam is this way. Lucky for him, Grey wakes up at the slightest irregular sound, so in turn with the right way for the train to be he can’t help but wake up when it’s wrong. 

Grey levers himself up, careful not to wake Gilliam, and settles for resting rather than sleeping. Gilliam frowns in his sleep and Grey mirrors the expression. The impending revolution has everyone on edge, but Gilliam usually remains relatively centered. Grey watches him from across the small space. He tracks his breathing, making sure he sees an ‘in’ and an ‘out’ each time. 

The night drags on, and Grey watches. 

Mornings are always difficult for Gilliam, though he never complains. Sometimes he lets Grey take care of him, lets him rub his muscles or do other little things, but most of the time he wants to take care of himself. Grey doesn’t try to push to issue. Gilliam isn’t a child, he knows his own mind. Still, Grey wishes he could do more, so when Gilliam asks him for a favor Grey agrees right away. 

“Curtis and Edgar are working on the plan, setting up the strategy,” Gilliam says, lifting a hidden stack of papers from a compartment and shuffling through them. “I need you to ensure that our fighters are armed and ready.” 

Grey nods solemnly and stands, ready to make himself useful. He grabs his coat from the hook in the wall and puts it on. Today it’s more useful to him if people feel comfortable around him, and people tend to be nervous around him when they can see all of his scars. He pulls back the curtain. 

“Grey?” Gilliam calls out, and Grey turns back to see him looking up at him from the floor. Grey tilts his head to show that he’s listening, but Gilliam just looks at him for a long moment. The silence practically hums with unspoken things. 

Concerned, Grey darts back over to his side and drops to his knees beside him, reaching out. Gilliam lets him wrap his arms around his body and puts his cheek next to his heart. _It’s ok,_ Grey tells him. 

Finally, Gilliam blinks and leans away, looking more like himself. “Thank you,” he says with more conviction, squeezing Grey’s arm tightly for a second before letting go. 

Satisfied, Grey leaves Gilliam’s room, nodding shortly to the people in the immediate area. One woman even smiles at him. The people that live closest to Gilliam wouldn’t hurt him, Grey made sure of that years ago. 

People give him room to pass, and occasionally side-eyed glances. He catches whispers of ‘Gilliam’s weapon’ and ‘Ever since he killed Marcus’ and keeps his expression neutral. The specifics of his mission are easy for him. After seventeen years Grey knows where every weapon and potential weapon on the train is. He knows who has one that shouldn’t, who should have one but doesn’t, and who knows how to make more. Weapons are Grey’s speciality. 

Even so, working his way through twenty cars takes the better part of the day. He barters, trades, and even steals one or two things, all the while moving closer and closer to the front. He spots Edgar from across one of the cars and nods to him, but they’re both too busy to stop their work. Grey turns away from him and proceeds into the dank storage areas, glancing around. He used to spend a lot of time in here, hiding up in the shelves. He reaches up simply lifts himself up where he used to have to climb or jump, and makes it to the highest shelf in seconds. 

A soft gasp catches his attention and he turns to see a kid perched on the shelf across from him. She’s small, just a baby, and visibly surprised to see him. Grey smiles reflexively at her and she narrows her eyes, scooting farther back into the shadows. 

Grey turns around to reach for one of the many boxes, giving her the opportunity to jump him from behind and listing to make sure he knows it if she does. He hears her shifting around. “I know who you are,” she finally says. Grey turns, eyebrows raised. Everyone knows who he is. She meets his gaze stubbornly, raising her chin. “I’m not scared of you. This is my place.” 

Amused, Grey puts his hands up in mock surrender before turning around again. The girl waits for a charged moment, then she’s jumping across the gap, quick but not quick enough. Grey slides out of her reach then grabs her arm, forcing her to drop her knife, which is little more than a rusted piece of metal. She inhales sharply but doesn’t cry out. Grey has to use his other hand to hold her forehead when she tries to bite him a second later. 

He pushes her away, in the direction of the wall. She hits it and glares, looking him up and down. Reassessing. Grey shakes his head at her then watches her from the corner of his eye as he finishes his business. She stays quiet, and after a few minutes in which she she doesn’t try to kill him again, so Grey slides her makeshift knife back to her. It’s not a real weapon anyway. When she skitters away, jumping down to a lower shelf and disappearing, Grey just lets her go, shaking his head. She reminded him of Edgar, scrappy and kind of stupid. 

Grey smirks, but it fades. Sometimes he wonders if it’s not Edgar he cares for, but their history. Grey cares for his younger self and the experiences he had with Edgar. No one, not even the soldiers, can take that away from him. Their relationship has value. 

He finishes gathering up all the hidden weapons, putting them in a box and settling in to wait for count. There’s not enough time to do anything substantial before they all have to gather in the front, and Grey wants to use the storage area as a base for weapons dispersal. He leans against the wall and stares at the place the little girl had been, thinking. 

People move around on the floor, heading back and forth and going about their lives. Grey wonders which of them will die in the revolution. A scraping sound catches his attention, and he watches the spot he knows the climber is going to appear lazily. Even if they try to kill him, he has the high ground and a box full of weapons. 

Seconds later, he’s looking into Edgar’s face, which starts talking immediately. “There you are!” Grey sits up straight, taken off guard. Edgar _found_ him. 

“So, Curtis thinks that I’m in love with you but I’m too scared to admit it. He thinks that you’re using me for sex and that it’s ‘going to break my heart one day,’” Edgar says, settling next to him and rolling his eyes. “It’s fuckin’ ridiculous. He says this kind of shite all the time but he’s the one too scared to admit to things.” 

Grey just watches him, letting him talk, still considering Edgar’s new found ability to track him down. He had never done that before, not intentionally. Grey considers the possibility that the little girl told him where he was, but dismisses it. Being tracked down is a strange and disturbing novelty. Up until now, Grey could hide from everyone.

Edgar’s still talking. There must be something about talking that makes people need to do it in order to understand themselves. Grey has always understood himself. He doesn’t need to hear it, but Edgar isn’t that way. He talks around an issue for days until he can finally face it. 

“He doesn’t understand. He’s too...stuck. He can’t get past his old world.” Edgar shakes his head. “And it’s not just that he’s old, Gilliam’s even older than him and he doesn’t get caught us in the old world bullshit.” 

Grey nods, feeling that familiar wave of gratitude towards Gilliam. He never put Grey through any of this. Grey looks at his face, and feels bad for him. Grey has Gilliam. They have each other. Curtis can’t even accept that Edgar’s love exists. 

Edgar bangs the back of his head against the wall, hard enough that Grey feels a flicker of concern. “It’s so annoying. He’s always looking at me with this sad fuckin’ expression, like I’m missing out of all this stuff so I’m not really a person? Fuck it. I don’t really feel like I’m missing out on animals and nature, isn’t that the shite that got us into this mess in the first place?” 

He’s working himself into a bad state. Grey reaches out, taking hold of his shoulder and squeezing, hard. Edgar winces and tries to pull away but Grey doesn’t let him, grabbing him with his other hand and tugging him closer until Edgar’s is pressed against him. Edgar gives a token struggle but gives up, submitting himself to being held. 

He relaxes muscle by muscle, gradually melting onto Grey, who holds him up. Eventually, when Edgar tries to raise his head from Grey’s shoulder, Grey lets him. Edgar meets his eyes and shakes his head but they’re long past embarrassment. Grey leaves his arm wrapped around his shoulder. Edgar sighs and the sound is so familiar it makes Grey’s chest hurt. Grey smiles at him, wondering why he thought he didn’t care about Edgar. 

Edgar rubs a hand over his face. “I know I’m being an idiot.”

Grey just shrugs, and Edgar laughs, swatting at him. 

He lays his head back on Grey’s shoulder. “You know I love you right?” 

Grey squeezes Edgar’s shoulder again, lightly this time. He knows.


End file.
